


The Heart without the Brain

by goldfish06



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, light slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfish06/pseuds/goldfish06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has not been handling Sherlock's death well in every sense of the word. He feels his world is crumbling and he can't possibly continue 'living' as he has been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart without the Brain

**Author's Note:**

> There weren't any warnings that would apply, but I have tagged the most important bit I want everyone to know about. John will experience suicidal thoughts and I want everyone to know that before they go on to read this. If that is something that may not be good for you, please don't read it. You will not offend me in any way. I don't want it to be a trigger for anyone so please turn back if it will be more than 'a bit not good' for you.
> 
> This sort of struck me last night and wouldn't leave me alone. I consider it a Post Reichenach John drabble and is called as such on my tumblr account. I feel I did pretty well conveying everything that came out of nowhere.
> 
> I always welcome constructive criticism and will ignore those that simply spew cruel words. I'm not telling you that you must read this. Please don't if you don't like the idea. Again I won't be offended in any way. I simply ask that you don't be unnecessarily cruel. Thank you.

John Watson was not living.

  
One look at the man confirmed the above statement. He is physically alive and breathing, but he is not living. The spark in his eyes is gone leaving dark blue eyes flat and dull. There are dark purple bruises under his eyes that never see to go away anymore. He doesn’t sleep well at night when he actually does sleep plagued by nightmares more than he has ever been before. He doesn’t stand tall and proud as if he was still in the army as he had been doing ever since he had been sent back to England after he was shot. His shoulders hunch forward making the already short man appear even shorter. He looks fragile, like the wind would be enough to push him off his feet crashing into the ground. It just might with how weak and tired he feels every day. His limp is back with full vengeance this time aching far more than it ever did before. His left hand shakes constantly as another reminder of what he has lost.

  
Eating is something he has to remind himself to do most of all when all his stomach wants to do is expel whatever is put inside of it. He has lost weight and it shows in his suddenly too big clothes and the thinness of his face. He hasn’t blogged in months and doesn’t go down to the pub with Lestrade or any of his rugby mates from Uni. He doesn’t speak much with anyone anymore than he has to. He knows that his friends are worried for him, but he can’t seem to summon the will to care enough to make a real effort in easing their worries.

  
He does still go to work taking as many hours as he can. He does go on long walks no matter how much his leg protests or fatigue settles into his bones. He does still see his friends and forces himself to act like he isn’t as broken as he actually is because that is exactly what John is: broken. He is barely clinging to life, merely existing.

  
John Watson, ex- army medic and best friend to Sherlock Holmes is a shell of the man he used to be. Sherlock’s death had been like his own. Sherlock had been his whole world since they had met in St. Bart’s lab. No, that’s not true. It was the day after when he had gone to Baker Street to check out the flat they would share. The moment he had decided to follow Sherlock after being invited to go to his first crime scene was when his world changed. The world had seemed dull in color and agonizingly boring. He couldn’t count how many times he had looked at his gun in the drawer and contemplated ending his life. It had been at least once a day after being in London for such a short amount of time. He hated going to a therapy sessions finding them a waste of his time. He had felt like the world was spiraling down out of control and it was pulling him with it.

  
Sherlock had changed all of that.

  
With Sherlock he had found everything he had wanted but hadn’t known until then. The excitement from the chase and a friendship where he was understood better without having to say a word were only two of the many things he had been given. The most important one of all had been a reason to live again. The helplessness had been consuming him before he had met Sherlock and it never came back the whole time he had been with the Consultant Detective. He owed Sherlock his very life and he tried to repay that back in any manner he could.

  
What about now though?

  
There was no Sherlock anymore. He had been snatched away from John cruelly. The arse had jumped off of St. Bart’s right in front of John’s eyes after speaking on the phone with him. God, the feelings that had been running through him that day, in that moment when he watched the most brilliant man ever fall to his death, couldn’t ever be described accurately.

  
John was almost positive that the death of his parents had never hurt this much. Why was it that it _hurt so god damn much?_ They had been friends, best friends and partners. Sherlock had been his whole world taking priority over all of his girlfriends. Looking back, John wondered for a moment what that even meant. All of his girlfriends had been pushed to the back seat when Sherlock sent him a text. What did that say about him? His priorities, to most people, would have been called very misplaced. To him it had been natural and instinctive. If Sherlock text him about a case, he would excuse himself from his date and go wherever Sherlock told him to go.

  
Was it because they had been so close, closer than brothers? John thought about it for a moment. If Harry, his actual biological sister, had died, would he be in this state after so long? Never mind that he has been fighting with Harry nearly all of his life. That, in his mind, would have little impact on the fact that his sister had died. She was his sister and he loves her no matter what even if she drives him insane.

  
No. No, he would have gotten over Harry’s death by now if she had died. Did that mean he cared more for Sherlock than Harry? Yes, of course he did. The man had been infuriating, but John had killed for him after barely knowing him. He hadn’t blinked, hadn’t hesitated, and certainly hadn’t lost sleep over it.  
Everyone had assumed from the beginning that they were a couple despite John’s protests. Even Irene Adler had made the comment that they were a couple and he still denied it. There were many different words that could have followed after ‘couple’. A couple of blokes, a couple of friends, a couple of co-workers. Pick any of them and that described the pair of them in every respect. They were a couple of sorts, but they had never been in a romantic relationship. He loves Sherlock. Does he romantically love Sherlock? He doesn’t even need to think about it anymore his mind has the answer ready in an instant: of course. He hadn’t thought about it until now.

  
It does him no good now and frankly, it would have made things more complicated if he had truly realized it before now. While Sherlock had changed in many ways and most of all dealing with sentiment since they had met, romance wouldn’t have been welcome. Sherlock had said it from the beginning: he was married to his work. John had been part of The Work of course, but he had to be in order to assist Sherlock. Sherlock obviously had carried affection for John, but they were best friends. It was natural that he would. It’s amazing that despite the huge revelation, it brings no emotions from John.

  
Most people called Sherlock and John ‘The Brain and the heart’ in that order. Even Moriarty had called John Sherlock’s heart at the pool over a year ago. At the time John hadn’t thought much of it as he had been far more worried about coming out of the encounter alive and even after he hadn’t thought too much about it. However, now he began to see just how accurate everyone had been with that simple all phrase. John had been Sherlock’s heart and Sherlock had been John’s brain. They had been a hell of a team. They hadn’t always caught the bad guys, but their record was one that many couldn’t find fault with. Every success presented on his blog had helped bring more cases. They had been great partners.

  
The brain is gone now and the heart remains.

  
_How can the heart continue to go on separated from the brain?_

  
‘It doesn’t,’ John’s mind answered bringing forth a bittersweet chuckle. The heart can’t continue if it doesn’t have the support of everything else. If the heart is left alone, it dies. It has nothing to keep it beating and functioning as it should.

  
John slowly rises to his feet from his chair and moves upstairs quietly as possible to his room where his gun is. Just as quietly upon entering does the ex-army medic take his gun out of the drawer and looks over it. His body moves to sit on his bed while his hands switches off the safety and his eyes never leave the cold dark metal object in his hands.

  
_The heart dies._

  
Yes, the heart dies when it’s left alone and John is so tired of merely existing. This one item in his hands could bring the end of his existence and the suffering would be over. The gun’s barrel is in his mouth when he wonders what will happen after death. His mind becomes treacherous suddenly.

  
An image of him spread on his bed and Mrs. Hudson finding him in such a state flashes through his mind. Her screams and tears after finding him, the frantic call to 911 and Lestrade. Lestrade’s haunted face as he takes in the scene of death before him. His death would force Molly to see another of her friends lying on the slab before her. Mycroft would be informed; Lestrade would do it once he was able to handle speaking. Lestrade would go to Harry and tell her that her brother had killed himself only causing her to spiral further down into the bottle until it finally killed her.

  
His mind is a torture device that causes him to hesitate, closing his eyes fighting against the tears suddenly building.

  
 _‘Really John, you are much stronger than this,’_ says a deep voice that John hasn’t heard in months that pushes the tears out and down his face. He couldn’t even properly kill himself in peace could he? Even from beyond the grave Sherlock was there in his mind pushing him.

  
‘I’m really not Sherlock, I can’t take it anymore,’ he tells the Sherlock voice in his head. He doesn’t want this life anymore. It wasn’t even life, it was hell.

  
There was a heavy put-upon sigh that answered. _‘Yes, you are John. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t have chosen you to be my flatmate and chase criminals with me. You are stronger than this and to die would be a great waste for humanity. Don’t be an idiot.'_

  
Just the thought of those four words brought the barest of a smile to John’s face as his arm sagged pulling the gun away from his mouth a little. ‘That’s me, the idiot,’ he thinks. ‘I’m such an idiot.’

  
_‘Self pity will get you nowhere John. You need to live; you can’t die because of me John. I will not stand for it’_

  
‘I don’t think you have much say in the matter. You’re dead Sherlock, and you’re just a figment my mind created. You aren’t really talking to me. I must have finally lost it completely. I’m insane.’

  
_‘Now you are just being melodramatic. Figment or not, you can’t die because of me. I need you to live. I need you to find a reason to keep living. I stopped you from coming closer to St. Bart’s for a reason John, and that reason was that you could live.’_

  
Of course the figment did otherwise it wouldn’t exist now would it? The sad thing is that the voice not only sounds like Sherlock’s voice, but it was too damn logical. What the hell was going on with him? He must be insane if he is fighting with his our mind using Sherlock’s voice as the fucking voice of reason. Yes, something must have cracked finally. Sherlock would want him to live however; he could not deny that. The real Sherlock would scoff and tell him to find a reason to live again. ‘I don’t know how to.’

  
_‘What matters the most to you John?’_

  
‘You,’ he answered without having to think about it. His hand had pulled the gun fully away from his face and rested gently in his lap. ‘Your name still needs to be cleared. I hate that nearly everyone has turned against you.’

  
_‘Then that will be your reason for living. Clear my name John, and when that is done, find a new reason to live for.’_

  
John sits there staring at the wall before him letting the idea float around in his head. Clear Sherlock’s name… yes, that was something he could do. He owed it to Sherlock if nothing else. He couldn’t stand to see his name smeared. ‘Alright,’ he finally gave in.

  
_‘Then you must get help, because you are in no state now to do anything of the sort. Ask Mycroft for help.’_

  
John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. ‘Ask _Mycroft_ for help?’ he thought incredulously. ‘You would have me go to Mycroft for help?’

  
_‘If it meant saving your life, keeping you sane, then yes John. I would go to him for help for you.’_

  
John blinked then swallowed hard. He hadn’t spoken to Mycroft since he confronted the man when he learned the eldest Holmes had given Moriarty everything he needed to use against Sherlock. Sherlock’s voice had a point. He was in no shape physically or mentally to be help to anyone most of all himself.  
Swallowing hard against John slipped his phone from his pocket and dialed Mycroft’s number. When the man picked up his phone he gave Mycroft no chance to speak. If he didn’t ask immediately he feared that he would change his mind. “I need your help,” he said voice rough.


End file.
